Self-reflection in the age of selfies

Christina Capecchi

9/30/14

"Lena Dunham is not done confessing."

That's the headline of The New York Times Magazine profile
just published about the actress-turned-memoirist, and it
couldn't be more apt.

Though I've never seen an episode of her highly rated,
super-raunchy, nudity-filled HBO show "Girls," I consider
Lena something of a cultural case study, given how often she
is touted as the voice of my generation. That voice has never
shied away from revelation, however unflattering or immoral.

It will reach new heights this month, when her memoir, Not
That Kind of Girl, is released, the product of a $3 million
book deal Lena signed with Random House two years ago at age
26. The Atlantic called the memoir "a new chapter in her
campaign of self-exposure" while The New York Times Magazine
said it was written "with a ferocious, hilarious and
occasionally worrisome candor."

Lena's revelations range from decades of psychotherapy
(beginning when she was 9) to the loss of her virginity -
diplomatically summarized by The New York Times Magazine as a
series of "questionable personal choices."

The critical response that intrigued me most came toward the
end of James Parker's review for The Atlantic: "There's
something very contemporary in Dunham's self-exposure, her
restlessly accelerated processing of her own experience." He
went on to render a chilling assessment of life on perpetual
broadcast, that 21st-century young adult proclivity. "That's
modernity: The inside's on the outside, leaving a vacuum on
the inside."

I often wonder about the Facebook effect on the inner life,
what it means when the time between experiencing and sharing
is reduced to a matter of seconds.

Reality TV stars are questioned about their willingness to
bare it all for national consumption, and I'm amused when
these boldfaced confessors insist they don't share everything
with the cameras. Somehow, Kim Kardashian's second go at a
nationally televised wedding was supposed to seem restrained
because the footage ended right before the actual ceremony
and was shot only by friends, not producers. (I can't help
thinking of Dave Letterman's comment to Kim when she was on
his show last year: "I just wonder if you're getting good
advice.")

But it's not just a question for celebrities. Self-disclosure
is an issue every conscientious young adult grapples with.
What goes on the blog and what stays in the private journal?
What do you share with a close friend, a group of online
followers, the World Wide Web, God? Where's the line between
self-aware and self-absorbed, between navel gazing and soul
searching? Will I know when I've crossed it?

I find myself composing tweets in my head, a strange sort of
outside-looking-in sensation that, though aimed at capturing
the moment, surely hinders my ability to be in it. When it
comes to my social media output, I try to evaluate my
intentions and distinguish the sociable impulse from the
narcissistic one. Am I making a connection or making a
statement?

The Catholic Church calls us to develop the inner life,
beckoning us to bend our knees, bow our heads and close our
eyes, inviting us to make our confession before a priest, not
a camera. It gives us tools specifically designed for
self-reflection like spiritual direction and that
increasingly foreign, healing prospect of the silent retreat.

In an Instagram era, these offerings feel more vital than
ever. How can we still our hearts when our thumbs keep on
tapping?

Pulling the plug on all social networks probably isn't the
solution for most of us. But we can turn to this month's
Scripture, St. Matthew's account of the greatest
commandments, for a litmus test on each tweet: Is it drawing
on a love of self or a love of neighbor?